Time
by Marston Chicklet
Summary: Harry reflects on his relationship with his wife after the events of Christmas Eve.


DISCLAIMER: Don't own any of the characters affiliated with Love, Actually.  Hell, the plot in this one can hardly be called mine…

A/N: In honour of Love Actually coming out to own on Tuesday, I have decided to finally post this!  Okay, was anyone else pissed off about the way they wrapped up the Harry/ Karen plot line in Love, Actually?  Nothing happened!!!!!!!  So I shall be a horrible authoress and take a break from Perfection to satisfy my needs…  (Get your mind out of the gutter!)  One shot.  

Time

*~*Marston Chicklet*~*

Barely a word was spoken between them on the drive home.  The silence carried over as he walked into the house, lagging slightly behind his family, watching them, memorizing them, just in case.

His breath was visible in the icy December air as he let out a sigh, wanting with his whole being to call out and stop her before she entered the house, but the words didn't come.  What was there to say?

He lingered on the front step; staring at the stars that shone down, faint through the light of the street lamps that lit up the London streets.  Feelings rose up within him, questions that he would never be able to answer, even if he lived for another hundred years.  He shivered, but couldn't bring himself to face the inside, the warmth, everything that he had forgotten in his idiocy.  He didn't deserve it.

But the cold was beginning to penetrate his coat and though he burrowed deeper into it, shoving his hands into his pockets, he knew that he wouldn't last much longer.  Quietly, as if afraid to disturb the contents of the house, he pushed the front door open and was confronted by an empty hallway.  The sight pained him.

How many times, he asked himself, had she greeted him in this very spot when he came home from work?  How many times had he taken that for granted?  How could he have allowed himself to do so?

Still, without a sound, he hung his coat in the closet and continued into the living room, where the Christmas tree stood, lights unlit, presents waiting to be unwrapped piled beneath.  

The necklace.  Oh, God, what had been thinking?  

Mentally, he cursed the day that he had hired the damned secretary, the day he had seen the necklace, all of it…  He even cursed the bastard who had sold it to him.  But above all he cursed himself.  

As if removing himself from the living room would allow him to bury all thoughts of _that _mistake, he moved on to the kitchen, where he seated himself at the table and buried his head in his hands.  Upstairs, he could hear the water running in the bathtub, and he knew that Karen was putting the children to bed.  He couldn't bring himself to move.  

_Idiot_, he thought, the single word running through his mind repeatedly.  _Idiot._

He could go upstairs right now, offer to help her like he should have so many times before, but it would seem strange, particularly now.  Not that it would make up for anything.

His eyes focused blankly on the clock ticking off the seconds before him, the sound entering his mind in an almost painful manner.  How much time had he wasted?  Time that he could have put to use, time that he could have expressed himself to her, time that could not be recovered.  In the otherwise still house, he could hear her voice floating down the stairs to him.  He could catch snippets of a children's story, between the sounds that were now nearly erupting from the clock.

Upstairs grew quiet.  He could hear the padding of her feet across the hardwood as she prepared herself for bed.  She wouldn't come down, he knew, and the chances of him going up were looking slimmer by the moment.  He didn't expect forgiveness—in fact, he was more than a little surprised that he had been let into the house at all.  

His fascination with the clock grew.  Second after second passed, and soon the minute hand had made a full rotation.  So much time, spent unconsciously.  So much time wasted.

His throat constricted as the notion settled onto him.  He only had so much time.  Only so many rotations of the clock; only so many days to live.  Age had not settled onto his shoulders, but he knew his time would come.  A time when he would not have the chance to say what was crying so desperately to be said.  But he was rooted to the spot.  After so many years, it was difficult to break the silence.

Another hour passed, and his only movement had been to bury his head in his hands.  Behind him a floorboard creaked, and he jerked at the sudden irregularity.  The clock's ticking was ingrained in his head.  He had begun to think—no, wish—that it would be the last sound he ever heard.

Karen stood there, and for the first time he saw how the years were beginning to weigh on her.  Years that had passed without his noticing.  She filled the kettle with water and silently waited for it to boil.  The minutes of silence passed painfully, until finally she pressed a cup of tea into his hands, sitting herself across from them with one of her own.

It was a typical Karen gesture, he reflected.  Comforting him, when it was her that needed it most.

He needed to say something, to fill the quiet that was only broken by the clock that hung from the kitchen wall, but his mind remained empty.  Why had he allowed this to happen?

"Karen, I…" he tried, but the sound of his own voice startled him back into the previous mute space.

She smiled tiredly, covering his hand in hers.  Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and he could still see the tearstains on her cheeks, though it was obvious she had tried to rub them off.

"I know."

Time continued to pass.  He could feel it flowing by him, and knew he could do nothing to slow the tide.  But he could at least make this journey down the river worthwhile.  So he opened his mouth and though midnight had long since passed, they did what should have been done long ago.  

They talked.

A/N: So let me know what you think.  Started this quite a while ago (like, November…), but forgot about it until just now.  As always, concrits are welcome, as is excessive amounts of praise… ;-P  Flames, not so much…  Whatever you do, don't tell me that it's unfinished or fragmented though, because I know that and it's entirely intentional!  


End file.
